Predictable Interesting
by Ricechex
Summary: Set after Series 2, but doesn't mention anything about the series itself. Just a little Sherlock/Irene fluff-fic that popped into my head. Sherlock lets Irene wear his coat. She asks him to dinner. There's fluff and a bit more fluff, mostly because I can. If I knew how to write summaries, this would sound better. This one, like all of my S/I fics, goes out to Naomi.
1. Chapter 1

"Don't tell me you didn't like it."

Sherlock frowned and stuck out his elbow. A slim arm adorned with a stunning navy-blue satin glove and glittering diamond bracelet slipped through his, hand resting on on his bicep. "It was predictable."

Irene laughed, her teeth bright flashes under deep red lips. "Only you would go to an opera and find it such, Mr. Holmes."

The corner of his mouth twitched up, but he said nothing. Irene's other hand came to rest on his arm, and his second hand came to rest on hers, and they walked in companionable silence for several moments.

It was Sherlock who broke the silence first, just after they'd turned a corner. He leaned in and whispered to her. "We're being followed."

She tilted her head up and looked at him, smirking. "You have a plan?"

He pulled his arm - and her along with it - even closer to him. "Of course."

Then he pushed towards an alley, turned, and began swinging.

The fight didn't last long - there were three of them, but not a single one had brought a gun. Amateurs. Sadly, Irene's coat had fallen to their mercies, and they had not been kind.

She now stood shivering in her strapless dress. It was the same color as her gloves - dyed to match, Sherlock had no doubts - and was somehow provocative yet elegant. It was, in Sherlock's mind, simply the way Irene was - she was so many things that should not fit together, and yet.

He slipped out of his coat and held it out. She looked at him gratefully, slipping her arms through and pulling it tight around her. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

"You're welcome, Ms. Adler." He swallowed, his hands trailing over her upper arms, rubbing gently to try and warm her. She stepped in closer.

"What did they want?" She looked beside them at one of the attackers, who was sprawled in a rather undignified way. The rise and fall of his chest was steady and strong, though, so not dead. Dead meant trouble - lots of trouble. Not dead simply meant _less_ trouble, but it was the best they had right then.

"Not sure." Sherlock looked to his left, at the other two who were also laid in truly inglorious ways on the ground. "But it likely has to deal with Moran."

Irene shivered, and Sherlock's hands moved quicker, firmer. It was the only gesture he could give her right then. If her shivering meant cold, he could give her warmth. If her shivering meant discomfort... well, he could still give her warmth.

"We should be off, then."

"Indeed." He held out his arm again - John would be so pleased to know that Sherlock had, in fact, paid attention each time he'd crashed John's dates - and Irene slipped her arm through his again, hands resting against the fine fabric of his tuxedo.

"Have I ever told you, Mr. Holmes, that you look quite dashing whilst saving my life?"

Sherlock looked over at her, eyes wide. "I..."

She smirked, then leant up and kissed him, just at the edge of him mouth. "Let's have dinner."

When she pulled away, Sherlock watched her eyes: pupils, dilated. Pulse was, no doubt, elevated.

"I'm... not hungry."

Her smirk turned into a grin. "Neither am I."

He nodded once. "Alright then. Chinese?"

"Love some."

They stepped out of the alleyway, and disappeared in the late night crowds.


	2. Chapter 2

There were three cracks in the ceiling. Sherlock had been staring at them for nearly an hour and a half now. He wore a simple, loose t-shirt and one of his favorite pairs of pyjama pants, and his hair was still damp from the shower he'd had just before bed.

He wondered, idly, what John might say if he could see him now - Sherlock Holmes, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. Thinking.

Well, that part was normal, really. Sherlock had often been found lying about 221B, hands steepled beneath his chin as he stared at the ceiling, willing facts and clues to slip into place.

No, what John would undoubtedly find remarkable was the fact that Sherlock was not alone in his bed.

On his right, Irene was curled against his side, sleeping peacefully. He glanced at her, a small smile on her lips. It was undoubtedly the most real expression he'd ever seen on her - not her usual, self-assured smirk or her seductive, come-hither smile. No, this was deeper than that.

His right arm was around her shoulders, which were covered in a thin and rather oversized shirt. Her right hand was pressed lightly against his ribs, and every so often he could feel her fingers tense and shift, as though to make sure he was still there while she slept.

His gaze returned to the ceiling. Three cracks. Three gunmen. Three victims. Why was it always three?

"Stop thinking so loudly and go to sleep."

He snorted softly. "You're one to talk." He looked back over at Irene, whose eyes were now partly open. He stared at her for a moment, pursing his lips.

Irene gave him a lazy smile and shifted minutely closer. "Trouble sleeping, darling? I could always help you." Sherlock looked back up at the ceiling, silent. Irene laughed quietly. "I know. You're on a case. But remember, Mr. Holmes, all work and no play."

He was still silent as she brought her head up, rested her cheek against his upper arm. Nose level with his shoulder. Mouth... close. Very close. Closer than it had been two minutes ago.

"I've never done this."

Irene went very still. They were quiet for several seconds before she spoke. "When you say-"

"I mean... just... laying here. With... someone." He swallowed. "Anyone."

He kept staring at the ceiling. It was the safest place to look right then.

"Did you ever want to?"

He nodded jerkily, trying to figure out why he'd brought this up in the first place.

"Did you want to with John?"

"Yes." He hadn't even had to think about it.

"Did you ever want to... with me?"

He closed his eyes, tipped his head back slightly. "Yes." His voice was barely above a whisper.

Irene was quiet - considering his answers, most likely. Possibly wondering what else he wanted to do with her. With John. With...

"And, before that... did you ever want to with anyone else?"

He felt his face warm at the memories. "Once, with... but that... it doesn't matter."

"Who was he?"

Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat and ignored her ability to guess that it had indeed been a _he_. Sherlock could still recall the details - golden curls that were much tighter than his own, cut shorter. A wide smile and bright teeth. Blue eyes and kind words. "_I'm so sorry, I really didn't mean for him to get off his leash, I... Oh..._" Victor Trevor - the only person he'd ever met who acted like he mattered, like he was still human.

Until John. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson.

Irene.

"A... friend." The word still felt all wrong in his mouth. He didn't have friends. He never had friends. Except, he'd had Victor, hadn't he? And then John. And Lestrade, to a certain extent. And Mrs. Hudson, the landlady who treated him more like a son than his own parents ever had...

"You're not used to that, are you? That word?"

He finally looked at her. She looked... lonely. She looked exactly the way he felt.

"No."

"You've never had many friends, have you?"

"No."

"Am I your friend, Mr. Holmes?"

He stared at her, bringing a hand up to smooth the hair away from her face. "I don't know."

She smirked. "Honest answer. I appreciate that."

"I know."

She brought a hand up, ran fingers through his hair. "We could be. If you wanted that."

He closed his eyes. "It's dangerous - being my... friend."

"I know." He could hear her grinning in those words. "But I'm not afraid."

"I... I can't do this... this whole thing. Without you. You..." He opened his eyes again and stared at her. "You are the only one I trust to help me in this."

She pursed her lips, nodded once. "I consider that a high compliment, coming from you."

He gave her a soft, almost nervous smile. "As well you should."

She moved closer, her lips touching his. His brain distantly realised this was a kiss - she was kissing him, Irene Adler was _kissing_ him.

His lips trembled against hers, and he pulled her tighter against him.

"Shh, it's alright."

"I-"

"We're not doing anything."

She was whispering, and it was suddenly deafening. He kept his eyes closed, pretended he wasn't shaking. "We're-"

"Just once."

He let out a quivering breath and nodded slowly. "Yes. Just once." He opened his eyes.

Her hand slipped down, fingertips trailing over his cheek. "Let's go to sleep."

He nodded again, not trusting his voice just yet. He shifted around, got comfortable. She curled against his side again, right arm flung over his chest, legs intertwined with his. He brought his left hand up, rested it against her arm.

"Good night, Mr. Holmes."

He took a deep breath.

"Sleep well, Ms. Adler."


	3. Chapter 3

The airport was too much. Too loud, too bright, too full of people. Sherlock stood very still as he waited, eyes darting everywhere.

He hated planes. Hated airports. Hated traveling, if he were being honest.

All he wanted was home. 221B, Mrs. Hudson's mince pies, John's tea, Mycroft's irritating voice even. He wanted his bed and his shower and his violin and his microscope and he wanted, he wanted so much of his life back because it had been _his_, it had been real and terrible and perfect all at once.

He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, counting to ten in French. French was, by far, his favorite language. Irene had told him he sounded like sex on rose petals and silk sheets when he spoke French. He'd blushed and tried to hand her a coffee, but he'd ended up spilling it everywhere. She'd laughed, and grabbed a towel. He'd stammered out an apology and she'd taken his hand, squeezing once.

She'd told him it was fine. Not to worry. Then she'd kissed his cheek and cleaned up the mess.

He'd asked, of course. "Why? Why clean it up if you didn't make it?"

She'd smiled wryly. "Why does John clean up all of your messes?" Sherlock had narrowed his eyes and thought. Irene had shaken her head and grabbed another towel. "I'm for a shower."

Sherlock had stayed in his seat thinking until well into the night. Irene had finally come out of the bedroom, taken his hand, and pulled him along.

"I'm not tired."

"Then don't sleep."

They climbed into bed, and she curled against him. His arms went around her automatically, and she fell asleep against him, just like she had every night for almost a year now.

The sound of her breathing was soothing, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

He'd awoken in the reverse position - his head on her shoulder, her chest. His arms around her middle and her hand running through his hair. He'd shivered and squeezed his eyes shut.

"I can't keep doing this."

"But you're so close to being done, Mr. Holmes."

He'd shaken, and finally the tears came. "I want to go home." He'd buried his face against her shoulder and sobbed. She'd held him close and let him cry.

It was one of the kindest gestures he'd ever experienced.

A touch on his arm brought him back to the present. Airport. People. Two tickets - Stuttgart to Heathrow.

"Mr. Holmes? Are you alright?"

Her hand came up to brush his fringe out of his eyes - he needed a haircut, it was annoying. Then her hand traced his jaw, elegant fingernails trailing softly along his skin. He closed his eyes again and took in a deep breath.

"Yes."

He looked down at her, and she smiled up at him. "You sure... about this?" She held up the tickets.

Sherlock nodded. "It's the only thing left."

She nodded, and tucked them into his coat pocket. "Alright. I trust you."

His eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. They stood there for a few minutes, until finally the PA system kicked to life, asking all passengers of the 11:30 flight to Heathrow to please make their way to Terminal Four.

Sherlock glanced away, and felt a hand grab his, fingers knitting themselves between his. He looked back at Irene, then down at their interlaced hands.

They walked to their terminal hand in hand. It was, perhaps, precisely what Sherlock had needed right then.

"Will you keep in touch?"

They stood by one of the partitions separating the walkways from the actual gates. He looked through several layers of glass, to the plane that was being checked before they boarded. He thought about the last time she'd asked that, in a terrible hotel room in Karachi. He'd saved her life and she'd shown up in his hotel room. He'd been the one to hand her a plane ticket that time, and as she'd been about to board, she'd raised up and kissed him, whispering, "Will you keep in touch, Mr. Holmes?"

He'd pulled her arms off of his neck, and told her, "You're going to miss your flight."

He'd found her thirteen months later, in a penthouse in Toronto. Turned up in the middle of the night, someone else's blood in his hair yet again, though the dirt on his face was his own fault.

She'd been shocked into stillness, then pulled him inside.

"They didn't follow me." That was all he'd said before he slumped against the wall, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

He'd woken up to the sound of a tea kettle screaming and a spoon clinking against the sides of a cup.

"Oh good, you're still alive."

He'd stared at her, mouth gaping open just a bit. "You took my clothes off."

"They were filthy. You weren't sleeping in my bed in those filthy clothes."

"You took _all_ of my clothes off."

She smirked and handed him his tea - no sugar, splash of milk. He'd never had tea with her before but she knew how he liked it. That was what she did, after all. "Can't blame a girl for not wasting an opportunity."

He'd frozen, eyes wide and cheeks bright red. She laughed and sipped her tea. "Your virtue's still intact, Mr. Holmes. I'm a dominatrix, not a _rapist_. Believe me - everything we do. It will be entirely consensual, because you will be awake and alert and you will tell me it's alright."

He nodded then, and sipped his tea.

He licked his lips and he was back in the airport now, with Irene beside him, her hand still gripping his, her face tipped up to him and eyes curious.

"I don't know."

"Will you be careful?"

He grinned. "Unlikely."

She chuckled, and squeezed his hand. "Tell me you'll at least try not to die."

He looked over at her. "I have no plans to die just yet, Ms. Adler."

She regarded him for a moment. "Good."

They waited, then boarded the plane last.

Sherlock insisted on her sitting next to the window.

"You're not... are you _sure_ you're not scared of flying?"

He glared. "Of course I'm not. I just... don't enjoy seeing the wrong side of the clouds." He'd pulled out his phone then, pretending to be busy as she laughed and settled into her seat, opening the shade.

He turned away just a bit, and she laughed again.

The flight was much shorter than the one from Heathrow to Toronto had been, and the one from Florida to Madrid. It was longer than the one from Milan to Stuttgart, though, and it seemed that regardless of the time in the air, Sherlock would, as soon as the plane began taxiing down the runway, grip the armrests so tightly his knuckles went white, and squeeze his eyes shut tight. He would remain in this position until one of two things happened: One, the plane would land, and he felt as thought he could breathe again. Or, Two, he would undo his seatbelt and rush to the loo as soon as possible, losing everything he'd eaten earlier.

In other words, Sherlock Holmes suffered from both fear of flying traveling sickness.

He'd found, however, that flying with Irene had made things at least a bit more tolerable. After their first flight together - where he'd ended up so sick Irene had pushed him into bed and made him stay there for three days - she'd taken to asking him questions or giving him tasks.

"Tell me about bees."

"Why tobacco ash? Why not things like paper?

"List the Fibonacci Sequence, skipping every other prime number. In Spanish."

That first time, when she'd asked him about something, he'd explained it in painful, excruciating detail. And then they'd landed. "Get your bags. We're here."

He'd looked around, then stared at her. He hadn't thought about it, he'd just reached forward and pulled her to him, kissing her. "Thank you."

She'd smiled against his lips. "You're welcome."

Today she took his hand and let him squeeze it tight. "Tell me about 221B."

He took a deep breath. "The wallpaper is garish and horrid. Nothing matches, everything is wrong and different, and that's why I love it. The kitchen counter tops have scratches, grooves dug into them. I was testing the depth and cutting capacity of different metals. John threatened to take my microscope to the surgery he worked in if I did it again." Sherlock smiled. "The cups in the cupboards don't match at all, and most of our dishes have chips in them. John refuses to let me cook, or do the washing up, because once I tried to cook with a plate on a burner. It exploded when I put it in the sink."

Irene laughed, and he grinned.

"My violin sits in the corner, near the window. I know John understands how important it is, because he's told me it's the only thing I treat with any sort of reverence. It's true. My violin is more than an instrument to me."

"You'll have to play for me sometime."

"I'd like that."

They continued on like this, Sherlock explaining the marks and burns and gouges inside 221B, Irene encouraging him more and more. They land just as Sherlock is telling her about his favorite books.

"Last stop."

He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. "London."

"Home."

He bowed his head, waited for everyone else to shuffle forward. He grabbed their bags from the overhead compartment, carrying them off.

Stepping into Heathrow proper felt almost as good as stepping outside and breathing real London air.

Sherlock swallowed.

"And this is where we say good bye. For now, at least."

He looked over at Irene. She held her next ticket and smiled sadly at him.

"I could... wait with you. Until your flight."

"I'd like that."

They walked to her next gate. She had only an hour until it took off, which meant that in thirty minutes she'd be stepping onto the plane.

They didn't speak, but Sherlock did take her hand and hold it close. He pulled it to his chest, placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. He pretended not to see when she brought her free hand up to wipe delicately at her eyes.

When they called for all passengers to board the plane, she turned to him. "I don't want to go."

He licked his lips, rubbed them together between his teeth. "If it helps... I don't want you to go either."

"But you need me to."

He nodded. "I need to know... that you're safe."

Her hands touched his face, and he gave her a slight smile.

"You'll miss me, Mr. Holmes."

"Sadly." He placed a gentle kiss on her lips. "Yes."

She sniffled, forced a smile, and grabbed her bag. Halfway to the flight attendant checking tickets, Sherlock thought of something.

"Ms. Adler!"

She turned back, surprised.

"You never explained. About the mess."

She looked confused for a moment, then smirked. "Never figured it out, did you?"

He grimaced and kept looking at her expectantly.

"Love."

He frowned. "What?"

She sighed, shaking her head and smiling still. "When someone you love makes a mess, you clean it up. You don't complain. You don't get angry. You just clean it up."

And then she turned and walked away.

He watched her go, watched as her plane took off. Watched as it became smaller and smaller.

Love.

Interesting.


End file.
